Hope is Attainable
by Divergentfourtris4ever
Summary: "My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am sixteen years old. I have depression. I got better. But then he ruined it. He ruined me." Who does Katniss Everdeen have to turn to when her best friend rapes her? He doesn't even remember it, as he was under the influence of alcohol. But it still happened. Hope can come from anywhere. Like the boy that works at the bakery her friends hang out at.


**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, they were all created by Suzanne Collins**

 _Chapter 1_

"My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am sixteen years old. I have depression. I got better for awhile. But now I'm here." I say, clinging tightly to the piece of paper with the meaningless words I've just said. Everyone else in the support group just stares, as they usual do, expecting me to say more.

The therapist, named Cinna, nods in approval before moving onto the girl with dark brown hair sitting next to me, knowing that was the biggest leap I would be willing to take. Knowing yet not knowing. Not knowing the reason behind my sudden refusal to see friends, refusal to leave my room, on bad days refusal to talk. Not knowing why the fresh cuts have suddenly appeared on my wrist after so long of being happy. He doesn't know why I can hardly look Prim, my little sister who means the world to me, in the eye. But he thinks he knows how to fix me. He has fixed me before, hasn't he?

He brought me out of the numbest depression there is, the loneliest. Or so I thought. When my father died, when I was just thirteen I fell into such grief that it hurt. The only way to quench the agony of my loss was to create a new form of stinging agony on my wrist. Prim was only nine when I started my relieving habit of drawing blood out of my pale wrists, so she didn't pay much attention at first. And as for my mother, we were lucky to get a word out of her. But one time, Prim walked in on one of my cutting sessions, in the middle of my fit of rage at the drunken driver who killed my father and agony that I would never get to hear him laugh and sing and talk, and instantly saw the blood dripping from my cuts. I tried to tell her that Buttercup scratched me and that I was fine, but she was insistent to get our mother to help clean up my cuts. The image of her broken daughter with bags under her eyes and blood running in lines across her wrist knocked her out of her daze.

This time, I have a feeling my depression won't easily be stopped. When my dad died it was final. I just had to realize that he wasn't coming back and I had to move forward with him in my memory, but not weighing me down. It's less certain now. Facing the torturous gaze of my attacker everyday, but what can I say to him. He probably doesn't remember pinning me to the bed, forcing me to remember the scent of alcohol, the rough feeling of his lips on my skin, and the desiring look in his grey eyes. He probably doesn't know why suddenly his best friend freezes at the sight of him, the memory replaying in her mind. But it happened. Even if it didn't happen for him.

Cinna says his usual goodbye to me, telling me to keep up the good work. I respond how I usually do, promising that I will come prepared next week with more words to share. I not only do this to take attention off my obvious pain, to lessen their concern, but I also do this so I don't disappoint Cinna. When I first met him, I was intimidated by his golden eyeliner and non-therapist attitude. He referred to himself as I friend. A friend who _only_ listened.

My mother waits outside the small therapist's office in our crappy old car. Prim is in the back, pouting slightly and glaring at my mother. Prim isn't usual one to have an attitude, but she is twelve. She may be sweet, but she isn't an angel. Nobody is. Especially not me.

"Hey little duck," I say, getting into the front seat of the car, cringing slightly at the stain on the fabric seats. I turn to look back at Prim, who seems to brighten at me talking to her. I eye my mother, her blue eyes staring straight at the steering wheel, frustrated.

"Katniss!" Prim yells, exciting coating her words. "You will never believe who asked me out today in school!"

I sigh, slightly annoyed at hearing my baby sister's love life. "Who is it?" I ask, still emotionally drained from even having to go into therapy, but it's Prim we're talking about. I haven't been the best to her for a few weeks now, since it happened, so I owe it to her to listen now.

"Rory Hawthorne!" Prim exclaims, nearly jumping off of the seat. I'm not responding though. Hawthorne. Memories of Rory walking in with Gale flash through my brain, triggering the overwhelming memory of my body feeling crushed under his weight. Control leaving my body as I fight and fight and fight and finally give up.

"Katniss," my mother asks, brushing her blonde hair behind her ear, "are you ok?" She lays a gentle hand on my shoulder, rubbing soothing circles. It was soothing when I was a child, but I have seen to much experienced too much. The touch just makes me cringe. She hugs me, loves me, but thinks I'm going through some teenage phase as I break from the memories plaguing my sleep, my daily movements, and a simple touch.

"I just want to go home," I snap, frustrated. How can I even talk when I constantly feel sick to my stomach? Sick of myself. Sick of seeing his face. Sick of living.

 **There's chapter one done! Please understand that when I write about Katniss having experienced rape at the hands of Gale, I am not trying to be disrespectful to the very serious topic. I am trying to show how much a person truly breaks from somebody violating them like that, but I'm also trying to empower people. It will get better! It is a very personal topic to me, so please don't hate. I am not going to write ANYTHING in great detail about that subject as it would not only be triggering to me, but also to others. Anyways the last months have been very difficult for me, hence me not posting any new chapters on my other stories. Hope you all enjoyed!**


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